Hypatia, by Charles Kingsley

Preface

A picture of life in the fifth century must needs contain much which will be painful to any reader, and which the
young and innocent will do well to leave altogether unread. It has to represent a very hideous, though a very great,
age; one of those critical and cardinal eras in the history of the human race, in which virtues and vices manifest
themselves side by side — even, at times, in the same person — with the most startling openness and power. One who
writes of such an era labours under a troublesome disadvantage. He dare not tell how evil people were; he will not be
believed if he tells how good they were. In the present case that disadvantage is doubled; for while the sins of the
Church, however heinous, were still such as admit of being expressed in words, the sins of the heathen world, against
which she fought, were utterly indescribable; and the Christian apologist is thus compelled, for the sake of decency,
to state the Church’s case far more weakly than the facts deserve.

Not, be it ever remembered, that the slightest suspicion of immorality attaches either to the heroine of this book,
or to the leading philosophers of her school, for several centuries. Howsoever base and profligate their disciples, or
the Manichees, may have been, the great Neo–Platonists were, as Manes himself was, persons of the most rigid and
ascetic virtue.

For a time had arrived, in which no teacher who did not put forth the most lofty pretensions to righteousness could
expect a hearing. That Divine Word, who is ‘The Light who lighteth every man which cometh into the world,’ had awakened
in the heart of mankind a moral craving never before felt in any strength, except by a few isolated philosophers or
prophets. The Spirit had been poured out on all flesh; and from one end of the Empire to the other, from the slave in
the mill to the emperor on his throne, all hearts were either hungering and thirsting after righteousness, or learning
to do homage to those who did so. And He who excited the craving, was also furnishing that which would satisfy it; and
was teaching mankind, by a long and painful education, to distinguish the truth from its innumerable counterfeits, and
to find, for the first time in the world’s life, a good news not merely for the select few, but for all mankind without
respect of rank or race.

For somewhat more than four hundred years, the Roman Empire and the Christian Church, born into the world almost at
the same moment, had been developing themselves side by side as two great rival powers, in deadly struggle for the
possession of the human race. The weapons of the Empire had been not merely an overwhelming physical force, and a
ruthless lust of aggressive conquest: but, even more powerful still, an unequalled genius for organisation, and an
uniform system of external law and order. This was generally a real boon to conquered nations, because it substituted a
fixed and regular spoliation for the fortuitous and arbitrary miseries of savage warfare: but it arrayed, meanwhile, on
the side of the Empire the wealthier citizens of every province, by allowing them their share in the plunder of the
labouring masses below them. These, in the country districts, were utterly enslaved; while in the cities, nominal
freedom was of little use to masses kept from starvation by the alms of the government, and drugged into brutish good
humour by a vast system of public spectacles, in which the realms of nature and of art were ransacked to glut the
wonder, lust, and ferocity of a degraded populace.

Against this vast organisation the Church had been fighting for now four hundred years, armed only with its own
mighty and all-embracing message, and with the manifestation of a spirit of purity and virtue, of love and
self-sacrifice, which had proved itself mightier to melt and weld together the hearts of men, than all the force and
terror, all the mechanical organisation, all the sensual baits with which the Empire had been contending against that
Gospel in which it had recognised instinctively and at first sight, its internecine foe.

And now the Church had conquered. The weak things of this world had confounded the strong. In spite of the devilish
cruelties of persecutors; in spite of the contaminating atmosphere of sin which surrounded her; in spite of having to
form herself, not out of a race of pure and separate creatures, but by a most literal ‘new birth’ out of those very
fallen masses who insulted and persecuted her; in spite of having to endure within herself continual outbursts of the
evil passions in which her members had once indulged without cheek; in spite of a thousand counterfeits which sprang up
around her and within her, claiming to be parts of her, and alluring men to themselves by that very exclusiveness and
party arrogance which disproved their claim; in spite of all, she had conquered. The very emperors had arrayed
themselves on her side. Julian’s last attempt to restore paganism by imperial influence had only proved that the old
faith had lost all hold upon the hearts of the masses; at his death the great tide-wave of new opinion rolled on
unchecked, and the rulers of earth were fain to swim with the stream; to accept, in words at least, the Church’s laws
as theirs; to acknowledge a King of kings to whom even they owed homage and obedience; and to call their own slaves
their ‘poorer brethren,’ and often, too, their ‘spiritual superiors.’

But if the emperors had become Christian, the Empire had not. Here and there an abuse was lopped off; or an edict
was passed for the visitation of prisons and for the welfare of prisoners; or a Theodosius was recalled to justice and
humanity for a while by the stern rebukes of an Ambrose. But the Empire was still the same: still a great tyranny,
enslaving the masses, crushing national life, fattening itself and its officials on a system of world-wide robbery; and
while it was paramount, there could be no hope for the human race. Nay, there were even those among the Christians who
saw, like Dante afterwards, in the ‘fatal gift of Constantine,’ and the truce between the Church and the Empire, fresh
and more deadly danger. Was not the Empire trying to extend over the Church itself that upas shadow with which it had
withered up every other form of human existence; to make her, too, its stipendiary slave-official, to be pampered when
obedient, and scourged whenever she dare assert a free will of her own, a law beyond that of her tyrants; to throw on
her, by a refined hypocrisy, the care and support of the masses on whose lifeblood it was feeding? So thought many
then, and, as I believe, not unwisely.

But if the social condition of the civilised world was anomalous at the beginning of the fifth century, its
spiritual state was still more so. The universal fusion of races, languages, and customs, which had gone on for four
centuries under the Roman rule, had produced a corresponding fusion of creeds, an universal fermentation of human
thought and faith. All honest belief in the old local superstitions of paganism had been long dying out before the more
palpable and material idolatry of Emperor-worship; and the gods of the nations, unable to deliver those who had trusted
in them, became one by one the vassals of the ‘Divus Caesar,’ neglected by the philosophic rich, and only worshipped by
the lower classes, where the old rites still pandered to their grosser appetites, or subserved the wealth and
importance of some particular locality.

In the meanwhile, the minds of men, cut adrift from their ancient moorings, wandered wildly over pathless seas of
speculative doubt, and especially in the more metaphysical and contemplative East, attempted to solve for themselves
the questions of man’s relation to the unseen by those thousand schisms, heresies, and theosophies (it is a disgrace to
the word philosophy to call them by it), on the records of which the student now gazes bewildered, unable alike to
count or to explain their fantasies.

Yet even these, like every outburst of free human thought, had their use and their fruit. They brought before the
minds of churchmen a thousand new questions which must be solved, unless the Church was to relinquish for ever her
claims as the great teacher and satisfier of the human soul. To study these bubbles, as they formed and burst on every
wave of human life; to feel, too often by sad experience, as Augustine felt, the charm of their allurements; to divide
the truths at which they aimed from the falsehood which they offered as its substitute; to exhibit the Catholic Church
as possessing, in the great facts which she proclaimed, full satisfaction, even for the most subtle metaphysical
cravings of a diseased age; — that was the work of the time; and men were sent to do it, and aided in their labour by
the very causes which had produced the intellectual revolution. The general intermixture of ideas, creeds, and races,
even the mere physical facilities for intercourse between different parts of the Empire, helped to give the great
Christian fathers of the fourth and fifth centuries a breadth of observation, a depth of thought, a large-hearted and
large-minded patience and tolerance, such as, we may say boldly, the Church has since beheld but rarely, and the world
never; at least, if we are to judge those great men by what they had, and not by what they had not, and to believe, as
we are bound, that had they lived now, and not then, they would have towered as far above the heads of this generation
as they did above the heads of their own. And thus an age, which, to the shallow insight of a sneerer like Gibbon,
seems only a rotting and aimless chaos of sensuality and anarchy, fanaticism and hypocrisy, produced a Clement and an
Athanase, a Chrysostom and an Augustine; absorbed into the sphere of Christianity all which was most valuable in the
philosophies of Greece and Egypt, and in the social organisation of Rome, as an heirloom for nations yet unborn; and
laid in foreign lands, by unconscious agents, the foundations of all European thought and Ethics.

But the health of a Church depends, not merely on the creed which it professes, not even on the wisdom and holiness
of a few great ecclesiastics, but on the faith and virtue of its individual members. The mens sana must have a
corpus sanum to inhabit. And even for the Western Church, the lofty future which was in store for it would
have been impossible, without some infusion of new and healthier blood into the veins of a world drained and tainted by
the influence of Rome.

And the new blood, at the era of this story, was at hand. The great tide of those Gothic nations, of which the
Norwegian and the German are the purest remaining types, though every nation of Europe, from Gibraltar to St.
Petersburg, owes to them the most precious elements of strength, was sweeping onward, wave over wave, in a steady
south-western current, across the whole Roman territory, and only stopping and recoiling when it reached the shores of
the Mediterranean. Those wild tribes were bringing with them into the magic circle of the Western Church’s influence
the very materials which she required for the building up of a future Christendom, and which she could find as little
in the Western Empire as in the Eastern; comparative purity of morals; sacred respect for woman, for family life, law,
equal justice, individual freedom, and, above all, for honesty in word and deed; bodies untainted by hereditary
effeminacy, hearts earnest though genial, and blessed with a strange willingness to learn, even from those whom they
despised; a brain equal to that of the Roman in practical power, and not too far behind that of the Eastern in
imaginative and speculative acuteness.

And their strength was felt at once. Their vanguard, confined with difficulty for three centuries beyond the Eastern
Alps, at the expense of sanguinary wars, had been adopted wherever it was practicable, into the service of the Empire;
and the heart’s core of the Roman legion was composed of Gothic officers and soldiers. But now the main body had
arrived. Tribe after tribe was crowding down to the Alps, and trampling upon each other on the frontiers of the Empire.
The Huns, singly their inferiors, pressed them from behind with the irresistible weight of numbers; Italy, with her
rich cities and fertile lowlands, beckoned them on to plunder; as auxiliaries, they had learned their own strength and
Roman weakness; a casus belli was soon found. How iniquitous was the conduct of the sons of Theodosius, in
refusing the usual bounty, by which the Goths were bribed not to attack the Empire! — The whole pent-up deluge burst
over the plains of Italy, and the Western Empire became from that day forth a dying idiot, while the new invaders
divided Europe among themselves. The fifteen years before the time of this tale had decided the fate of Greece; the
last four that of Rome itself. The countless treasures which five centuries of rapine had accumulated round the Capitol
had become the prey of men clothed in sheepskins and horse-hide; and the sister of an emperor had found her beauty,
virtue, and pride of race worthily matched by those of the hard-handed Northern hero who led her away from Italy as his
captive and his bride, to found new kingdoms in South France and Spain, and to drive the newly-arrived Vandals across
the Straits of Gibraltar into the then blooming coast-land of Northern Africa. Everywhere the mangled limbs of the Old
World were seething in the Medea’s caldron, to come forth whole, and young, and strong. The Longbeards, noblest of
their race, had found a temporary resting-place upon the Austrian frontier, after long southward wanderings from the
Swedish mountains, soon to be dispossessed again by the advancing Huns, and, crossing the Alps, to give their name for
ever to the plains of Lombardy. A few more tumultuous years, and the Franks would find themselves lords of the Lower
Rhineland; and before the hairs of Hypatia’s scholars had grown gray, the mythic Hengist and Horsa would have landed on
the shores of Kent, and an English nation have begun its world-wide life.

But some great Providence forbade to our race, triumphant in every other quarter, a footing beyond the
Mediterranean, or even in Constantinople, which to this day preserves in Europe the faith and manners of Asia. The
Eastern World seemed barred, by some stern doom, from the only influence which could have regenerated it. Every attempt
of the Gothic races to establish themselves beyond the sea, whether in the form of an organised kingdom, as the Vandals
attempted in Africa; or of a mere band of brigands, as did the Goths in Asia Minor, under Gainas; or of a praetorian
guard, as did the Varangens of the middle age; or as religious invaders, as did the Crusaders, ended only in the
corruption and disappearance of the colonists. That extraordinary reform in morals, which, according to Salvian and his
contemporaries, the Vandal conquerors worked in North Africa, availed them nothing; they lost more than they gave.
Climate, bad example, and the luxury of power degraded them in one century into a race of helpless and debauched
slave-holders, doomed to utter extermination before the semi-Gothic armies of Belisarius; and with them vanished the
last chance that the Gothic races would exercise on the Eastern World the same stern yet wholesome discipline under
which the Western had been restored to life.

The Egyptian and Syrian Churches, therefore, were destined to labour not for themselves, but for us. The signs of
disease and decrepitude were already but too manifest in them. That very peculiar turn of the Graeco–Eastern mind,
which made them the great thinkers of the then world, had the effect of drawing them away from practice to speculation;
and the races of Egypt and Syria were effeminate, over-civilised, exhausted by centuries during which no infusion of
fresh blood had come to renew the stock. Morbid, self-conscious, physically indolent, incapable then, as now, of
personal or political freedom, they afforded material out of which fanatics might easily be made, but not citizens of
the kingdom of God. The very ideas of family and national life-those two divine roots of the Church, severed from which
she is certain to wither away into that most godless and most cruel of spectres, a religious world-had perished in the
East from the evil influence of the universal practice of slaveholding, as well as from the degradation of that Jewish
nation whichhad been for ages the great witness for those ideas; and all classes, like their forefather Adam — like,
indeed, ‘the old Adam’ in every man and in every age — were shifting the blame of sin from their own consciences to
human relationships and duties — and therein, to the God who had appointed them; and saying as of old, ‘The woman
whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.’ The passionate Eastern character, like
all weak ones, found total abstinence easier than temperance, religious thought more pleasant than godly action; and a
monastic world grew up all over the East, of such vastness that in Egypt it was said to rival in numbers the lay
population, producing, with an enormous decrease in the actual amount of moral evil, an equally great enervation and
decrease of the population. Such a people could offer no resistance to the steadily-increasing tyranny of the Eastern
Empire. In vain did such men as Chrysostom and Basil oppose their personal influence to the hideous intrigues and
villainies of the Byzantine court; the ever-downward career of Eastern Christianity went on unchecked for two more
miserable centuries, side by side with the upward development of the Western Church; and, while the successors of the
great Saint Gregory were converting and civilising a new-born Europe, the Churches of the East were vanishing before
Mohammedan invaders, strong by living trust in that living God, whom the Christians, while they hated and persecuted
each other for arguments about Him, were denying and blaspheming in every action of their lives.

But at the period whereof this story treats, the Graeco–Eastern mind was still in the middle of its great work. That
wonderful metaphysic subtlety, which, in phrases and definitions too often unmeaning to our grosser intellect, saw the
symbols of the most important spiritual realities, and felt that on the distinction between homoousios and homoiousios
might hang the solution of the whole problem of humanity, was set to battle in Alexandria, the ancient stronghold of
Greek philosophy, with the effete remains of the very scientific thought to which it owed its extraordinary culture.
Monastic isolation from family and national duties especially fitted the fathers of that period for the task, by giving
them leisure, if nothing else, to face questions with a lifelong earnestness impossible to the more social and
practical Northern mind. Our duty is, instead of sneering at them as pedantic dreamers, to thank Heaven that men were
found, just at the time when they were wanted, to do for us what we could never have done for ourselves; to leave to
us, as a precious heirloom, bought most truly with the lifeblood of their race, a metaphysic at once Christian and
scientific, every attempt to improve on which has hitherto been found a failure; and to battle victoriously with that
strange brood of theoretic monsters begotten by effete Greek philosophy upon Egyptian symbolism, Chaldee astrology,
Parsee dualism, Brahminic spiritualism-graceful and gorgeous phantoms, whereof somewhat more will be said in the coming
chapters.

I have, in my sketch of Hypatia and her fate, closely followed authentic history, especially Socrates’ account of
the closing scene, as given in Book vii. Para 15, of his Ecclesiastical History. I am inclined, however, for
various historical reasons, to date her death two years earlier than he does. The tradition that she was the wife of
Isidore, the philosopher, I reject with Gibbon, as a palpable anachronism of at least fifty years (Isidore’s master,
Proclus, not having been born till the year before Hypatia’s death), contradicted, moreover, by the very author of it,
Photius, who says distinctly, after comparing Hypatia and Isidore, that Isidore married a certain ‘Domna.’ No hint,
moreover, of her having been married appears in any contemporary authors; and the name of Isidore nowhere occurs among
those of the many mutual friends to whom Synesius sends messages in his letters to Hypatia, in which, if anywhere, we
should find mention of a husband, had one existed. To Synesius’s most charming letters, as well as to those of Isidore,
the good Abbot of Pelusium, I beg leave to refer those readers who wish for further information about the private life
of the fifth century.

I cannot hope that these pages will be altogether free from anachronisms and errors. I can only say that I have
laboured honestly and industriously to discover the truth, even in its minutest details, and to sketch the age, its
manners and its literature, as I found them-altogether artificial, slipshod, effete, resembling far more the times of
Louis Quinze than those of Sophocles and Plato. And so I send forth this little sketch, ready to give my hearty thanks
to any reviewer, who, by exposing my mistakes, shall teach me and the public somewhat more about the last struggle
between the Young Church and the Old World.